


Dangerous Times

by anamatronicfish



Category: Cognitive Dissonance - Fandom, Mother 2: Gyiyg no Gyakushuu | EarthBound
Genre: AU, Gen, OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatronicfish/pseuds/anamatronicfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not so much about saving the world as reviving the world, this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Times

Once, an alien destroyed the world. Once, a boy went on a doomed quest. Once, a bug fought a mole. Once, a lover died searching for someone. Once, a team was swallowed by a chaotic miasma. Once, a cosmic power watched and waited. Once, all the pieces fell into their right slots, and once, a little boy had a twin.

 

Peacock feathers decorated the neat wooden interior of the cottage's main room, blocked from view by row upon row of drying wedding invitations. Hand lettered, the rows of identical, cream-colored cards hung from fishing line, marred only by the precise, black letters that detailed the event's time, place, and participants. The hand was beautiful and careful, yet, there was a dash of recklessness to the serifs. They trailed off with a slight flair that added excitement and adventure to the cards, as if the calligrapher expected that the couple's married life would be a tad bit more exciting than formal invitations and grand affairs. As if the pair would be caught off guard by future events and meet them head on. Perhaps he believed this to be true. However, the calligrapher looked anything but the adventurous type. He sat at his work table, hands clean, as he finished the final invitation, inspected it, and hung it up with the rest. 

With the cards finished, the calligrapher unfolded himself and stood up. He was tall, though, from the hunched way he held himself, he looked unimpressive and of little importance. His hair was strawberry blond and looked as if it could use a good haircut. His eyes were a blue teal and his handsome face was dusted with light freckles. The most striking feature about him was his choice in clothes. Even with summer underway the man wore a neckerchief and bright sweater emblazoned with the image of a proud, silhouetted moose and the word, 'majestic.'

The man turned off the electric light at his desk and the whole cottage fell into the soft darkness of early evening. A pale blue light filtered in through the windows from the night sky. It blanketed the writing supplies and finished pages on the calligrapher's desk. Calligrapher was the wrong title to call the man. It was accurate, but not complete. The man was a calligrapher, a linguist, an observer, a wanderer, a curious mind. The man who owned the small cottage and filled it with his craft was named Giegue.

The lonely cottage sat at the edge of a great lake, wide and deep. During the summer months, late at night, the clear surface reflected the multitudes of stars. Giegue loved to swim during those months and at those hours. It made him feel as if he swam through space and brushed against the insubstantial forms of stars and bright planets. He'd always fancied space and the stars, ever since he was a young boy. 

There were few things he felt more passionately about than the stars. Learning, adventures, and stories were givens on his list of favorites, but, he rationalized, stars fit so nicely with both topics. Learning from the stars. Adventures in the stars. Stories about the stars. Only one thing on his list of favorite things did not mesh with the stars as neatly as he would have liked. Niiue. Niiue and the stars. Niiue from the stars. Niiue the stars. His twin brother was in a category of his own.  


Sometimes, when he let more melancholy thoughts get to him, Giegue considered that Niiue fit into his star theme. Niiue in the stars, if he went with the popular explanation of dead loved ones being stars in the sky. He never lingered on the thought that Niiue was likely dead for too long.  


Tonight, Giegue stared up at the sky and wondered a different question. When would Miss Anise get his pictures sent? When would they be ready? A month had passed since he last heard from her and he could not help but feel as though she was pushing his work aside on purpose. It wouldn't be the first time Miss Anise ignored her paid work from him because she did not feel like cooperating with him. It was too late to visit Fourside tonight and ask her to please continue to work on the art he paid her to do. The tall man contented himself and sat down on the banks of the lake. He wished his illustrator didn't love to tease him and he wished he could inspire action in her. He flopped over onto his back and shut his eyes as a shooting star flashed overhead.

 

Downstream and to the west, a small woman sat on a tower of old cars and broken machines. A thick layer of dirt, oil, and blood covered her skin and clothes. Her black hair was matted and knotted far worse than any hair had a right to be. A swath of cloth bandaged her forehead, tied up, nice and neat. She kicked her feet against the metal and laughed. 

"Haa, look up there! Look, look, look! I found one!" She pointed up at the shooting star. "Zarbol, looook, look I told you I'd find one!"

"And, I told you to lie down and rest," retorted her companion, his voice inflected with a faint buzzing quality. He was shorter than the woman, not even five feet tall, but, what he lacked in size, he made up for in obnoxious hair color. His bright red hair stuck out, even in the muted moonlight. He was not next to the woman, but seated on the ground next to another stack of junk. A rectangular object sat in his lap, its insides exposed as the short man, Zarbol, figured out how it worked and how to repair it. 

"Shhh, shh, no, not yet! I have to make my wish," the woman said, and shut her eyes. 

She was quiet for a few seconds before she opened her eyes and looked over at Zarbol. "I wished you'd be stuck with me forever, not matter how annoying you think I am."

"Are you sure you're supposed to tell people what you're wishing for," he raised an eyebrow at her, his work on the innards of the machine postponed. "Not that it matters. I already told you, I'm sticking with you, wishes or no wishes."

The woman's smile spread and she leaned forward. A clump of hair fell forward over her right eye and she brushed it to the side with an ink stained hand. The moonlight muted her grime covered face and made the small woman look almost passable as a civilized lady.

"I just want to make sure. I like having you around, wow!" 

He made a soft buzzing noise, smiled, and set his tools aside. He climbed up the junk heap and perched next to the woman. A warm breeze tugged at his trench coat and blew more of the woman's hair out of place.

"Is that so, madam Ano?" He leaned closer to the woman, both eyebrows raised and a grin stretched across his face.

"It is, it issss." She grinned back and tucked her hair back behind her ear.

"Well, good, because I'm here to stay." Zarbol scooped Ano up in his arms and half slid, half climbed down the scrap heap. "You are stuck with me." 

"Stuck with you?" Ano curled towards Zarbol and lay her head against the shoulder of his coat. 

"Stuck with me." He pressed his nose against the top of her head and made a mental note to buy a bar of soap. He wasn't sure when his friend had bathed last, but Zarbol had a suspicion it was at least a month ago, if not longer. 

The alcove was set in a smaller scrap heap and was reinforced to be a stable, secure living space. Some previous resident of the junkyard must have improved on it, for it was a nice enough living space. Zarbol slipped in and set Ano on the old mattress. He really had to get a pillow for this place. As soon as he was sure Ano was okay, he'd go shopping for one.

"Whaaaat, you're not going to throw me tonight?" Ano squinted up at him, her nose scrunched up. 

"No, I'm not. Not until your head's healed up." He straightened up and started to leave.

"Wow, wow, that's not my fault." 

"I know," he said. His shoulders sagged a bit. "I'm really sorry." 

"You don't have to be sorry," she said, and yawned. "You're fucking amazing with hubcaps, wow!"

Zarbol turned back to face her and plucked the worn blanket from the foot of the mattress. He draped it over Ano and gave the woman a small pat on the shoulder. She smiled and shut her eyes. Zarbol stood up and turned to leave, only for Ano to call out at him.

"Wait," she said.

He paused and looked back at her. Her eyes were still shut, but she had a frown on her face. He walked back to her and sat down on the mattress.

"What is it, Ano?"

"Please don't leave me alone." She opened her eyes and stared up at Zarbol. She looked younger, huddled beneath the tattered blanket, and a lot more vulnerable than the loud-mouthed, can throwing woman Zarbol met a few weeks ago. "I'll be better, I promise. Just, don't leave."

"I already told you, I'm not leaving." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. She scrunched her face up, but relaxed. "I just have to get Foxglove inside, then I'll be right back, okay?"

Ano nodded once and he got up and out of the alcove. Foxglove was right where he left her, insides still open and ready to be modified and tweaked. He scooped Foxglove up, stashed his tools in his pockets, and carried his project into the alcove.

Foxglove was a pet project of Zarbol's. He had a knack for modifying, fixing, and building and the piece of old technology was the perfect challenge for a sharp mind like his. He put it back in the crate for the time being and shucked his coat. He knelt down and crawled onto the mattress next to Ano. As he shut his eyes, his friend shifted her position.

"Sleep sweet, Zarbol," she said, her voice only just audible. 

"You too, Ano," he said, and smiled.

 

Mips hated working the night shift. He hated it so much. He would much rather be in bed right now, sleeping. Maybe, he thought as he looked out over the aisles of cheap processed food and small packages of household necessities, he would like this shift a bit more if he ever had someone to work with him. That never occurred to his boss. He worked alone, all through the night, at least three nights a week. The robberies made the loneliness far worse. If he was to be alone, Mips would much prefer to sulk in private, not have armed robbers showing up every few nights, asking for all the money in the drawer, or, as they'd made a habit of doing, asking for life advice from him.

It not only was he not being paid to listen to the life stories of the down and out thieves of Fourside, he was also not sure he could be on their side or really emphasize with them. That was a side effect of them holding a gun up to his head and demanding advice. Still, he did his best and offered them whatever advice he could based on each of their situations. From the way the thieves returned with him for help, he supposed he was doing a passable job, though gods only knew he was the worst person around to ask on advice for pulling lives together.

Mips was twenty one years old, a prodigy at the piano, and educated at Snowwood from the age of eleven and up. Despite his education and the abundance of jobs in the area, here he was, working at a derelict convenience store on a poorly lit street in downtown Fourside near the junkyard. He knew he'd messed his life up, he just wasn't sure which of his failures was the killing blow for his hope for the future. There was a long enough list, gods know. Tonight, alone in the store, he pulled out a piece of paper and began to write down some potential reasons for his sorry excuse for a life.

He let his medical condition convince him he was different from all the other children back in Dalaam. There was his inability to save his father when he fell from a seizure. There was his lack of understanding that his brother, Vivek, was really sick. There was him not remembering to give his best friend in the whole world directions so he had a place to stay after his father died. There was the large number of times he'd decided he didn't want shoes on and found places to dispose of them on the way up to Winters. There was his reliance on his roommate followed by his inability to tell his roommate he have feelings for him. There was his temper. There was his failure at math. There was the fact that he gave up after his roommate disappeared and his refusal to move on from that point in his life. There was the fact that he was now living with his younger cousin who made a point of taking care of him whenever she could. Also, there was the fact that he had missed getting to the bookstore before it closed tonight and now had no book to read during the long, dull night. 

He decided his real mistake was not communicating. That was stupid of him. He leaned forward and rested his chin in his long, delicate hands. He wasn't a fan of Fourside. He wanted to go home to wherever home really was. He hadn't quite decided where he that was, but it wasn't Fourside, that was for sure. It probably wasn't Fourside. Maybe it wasn't. He really wasn't all the confident. Maybe he'd call Snowwood tomorrow, talk to his mother and his brother. He was dragging himself down, and that was no good at all. If he'd come to himself with problems and complaints about his own life, he'd sure have a lot to say and advice to give.

Wait, he thought, why couldn't he go to himself for advice? He glanced at the door. There was nobody on the street around him and no sign of activity in the next few minutes. This was the dumbest thing he'd done in a while, he reflected on as he leaned back. 

"So, what's fhe problem today, Mirza?" he asked himself, looking to his left.

"Oh, just fheelin' sad, same as always." And, to the right.

"Well, fhat's no good. Do you hafh any idea what fhe problem is?"

"A fhew, but, fhere's a lot. I don't want to bore you wifh my problems."

"No, no, no, I insist, it's just fhine. I'm here to listen to you, anyways. Just go ahead and tell me whatefher it is."

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. This was significantly more pathetic than he first imagined. None the less, he felt that talking to himself was a bit less depressing than sitting in perfect silence. 

"Well, I guess I'm just wonderin' why I'm sittin' here, workin' in a confhenience store, gettin' mugged durin' fhe night shift. I had a pretty bright fhuture ahead ofh me. I could hafh gone ahead and done somefhin' wifh fhe piano, or I could hafh fhollowed in my fhamily's fhootsteps and become a doctor. I was really good at bofh ofh fhose things. But, here I am, talkin' to myselfh, soundin' insane and stuffh."

"Hmm, maybe you just gafhe up too easy. You didn't need to base your whole lifhe around someone you cared about. You didn't need to gifh up afhter he lefht. You could hafh pushed fhorward, but, it was just easier to stop tryin' afhter fhat. It was good fhat you were attached to'm, but, fhere wasn't really any need to mope fhor a year afhter he lefht. You nefher really got your lifhe back togefher afhter you slipped up. You just accepted fhat you weren't goin' to accomplish anyfhin'. It stopped hafhin' anyfhin' to do wifh your roommate, too, it was just you usin' him leafhin' as an excuse to mope because it was fhe easy pafh."

"So, what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Get ofher yourselfh fhor one fhing. You take yourselfh much too seriously."

"Right. Any ofher adfhice- how can I help you, sir?"

Mips shut his mouth and smiled at the man who walked into the store, his eyes locked on the gun at the man's side. It was going to be a long night.

 

"Miss Spooks, why do you wake up so early to cook?"

"That's simple, Prince," the woman with curly black hair told the man with the guitar, "It's because my cuz works the night shift more often than not, and I promised his mother I'd make sure he ate regular meals. He's actually really good at that on his own, but I help out however I can."

"That's very kind of you, but," The man with the guitar looked up at her from his seat near the table, "who is this prince you're talking to? I don't see a single prince in the kitchen."

Spooks laughed and batted her hand at him. She liked the traveling musician a lot. He'd been at the farmhouse for a little under a week, and she still loved teasing him by calling him prince. It was a running joke between her and Mips. The cousins found the musician passed out in the apple orchard a few days ago and joked about how, in the stories, he would have to be a wandering prince, which made the two of them his helper characters. While the man claimed he was no prince, Spooks still liked the calling him by that title. Besides, she wasn't exactly certain what his real name was. It was either Allen or Alin or Avin or something along those lines. 

"Oh, but there is one right in front of me," she said, and grinned at Alin. He looked over each of his shoulders, then back at her. He shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Spooks, I don't see any princes. You must be mistaken."

"I'll get the truth from you someday." She stirred the pot of porridge on the stove. She loved to cook, and, by the gods, she was good at it. She'd made Mips something a bit more complicated when he first got his job at the convenience store, but, he was never hungry for anything complicated after the night shifts. The advantage to porridge was its ability to have fruit added to it without too much of a fuss. "You want some of this porridge, Alin?"

"You already have the truth, and," Alin made a face in the direction of the porridge, "No thank you on the porridge." 

Spooks tilted her head to the side and looked at the traveling musician. He shrugged.

"It's the one food I never want to eat again."

He was such a mystery. Such a strange, confusing mystery. Spooks wondered how much of his mystery she would get to unravel before he decided to continue on his musical trip. She wanted to know more about the green eyed man and his strange guitars. She could tell he was part Dalaamese, though she'd never seen anyone back in Dalaam with such a large stone on their forehead. Mips had been intrigued by the stone when they first found Alin, but, not even he could figure out what kind of rock it was or why it was stuck in the musician's forehead. Right now, she wondered why he wouldn't eat porridge. Was there a bad porridge incident at some point in his life? Was he not fond of the taste? What was the story behind this guy? She ladled out a bowl of porridge and set it in front of Mips' seat at the table and sat down next to Alin. 

"You excited for tonight?"

"Should I be?"

"Yeah! It's Thursday, after all."

"Okay. What's important about Thursday, though?" The guitarist paused his playing and looked at her. 

"My cuz and I have a friend who lives in the junkyard and, every Thursday night, we go and hang out with her and sing songs and look at the stars. It's really fun, actually."

Alin smiled and nodded his head. His fingers plucked at the strange guitar's strings and an out of this world tune filled the farmhouse. Spooks hummed along, not quite hitting the right notes at the correct times. Alin paused and changed how he played. Instead of his own music, he set up a tune to guide Spooks to the correct notes and give her a prompt to match his song. The guide work helped the Dalaamese woman and a harmony replaced the earlier discord. 

"Sounds nice in here." The pair had not noticed Mips return. He was in poor shape, his soft hair tousled and his left arm wrapped up with a bandage. The short man sat down at his place and started on the porridge.

"Are you okay," Spooks asked, her eyes locked on his bandaged arm. Alin stopped his strumming and raised an eyebrow. 

"Yeah, 'm fhine," Mips paused and looked from his cousin to their house guest. "You're a miracle worker, you know fhat?"

"I'm just a traveling musician, really," Alin smiled an uncertain smile and shrugged. "You aren't going to start calling me miracle worker, too, right?"  
Mips covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. 

"No, no, it's just, nobody's efher gotten her to stick to a tune befhore."

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the rough quality to this. I am going to try to write everything out before going back and polishing the text up.


End file.
